Amy Lake (3 page)

Dr. Fischer nodded. That was possible.

“Perhaps someone will inquire eventually,” he told her. “And they will have the comfort of knowing that he was well cared for at the end.”

Fiona wrenched off her apron and ran outside. She needed fresh air. She walked down to the cliff and looked back at her house, knowing that even now, a man was dying inside.

Again.

She heard a nicker, somehow, over the sound of the wind, and turned to look at the stables. Madelaine was probably there, feeding tidbits to the stranger’s horse. The animal was so huge that Fiona had originally forbidden her daughter to go anywhere near it, but once the stallion had gotten over its initial skittishness it had shown itself to be gentle and calm, and he and Maddie now formed a society of mutual affection. Such affection, in fact, that her daughter had to be convinced to leave the stable for meals.

The horse, on the other hand, ate like a horse, which might eventually cause a strain on Mrs. Marwick’s purse. For the first time, Fiona wondered what she would do with the stallion once his owner was . . . was dead. She had no use for such an animal.

Fiona sighed. Madelaine was now calling the stranger’s horse ‘Bunny’. Mother and daughter had a discussion concerning this name, but the girl was adamant.

“He’s a very large horse, you know. ‘Bunny’ doesn’t seem quite fitting.”

“That’s his name,” insisted Madelaine. “He likes carrots.”

Since ’twas only temporary, Fiona did not see the harm, nor did she have the energy to argue over a trifle. Madelaine had begged to be allowed to sleep in the stables and—thought Fiona, frowning—if the man was to die that night, perhaps she should allow it.

  * * * *

Fiona Marwick’s home was a cottage near Ryhope Bay. The view of the North Sea was spectacular from nearly every window of the house, something that meant nearly nothing to the inhabitants of the area in those days. A view did not provide food for the larder or wood for the stove.

Cottage
was perhaps a misnomer. The house was in fact bigger than most in the neighboring village of Barley Mow, with a spacious, sunny parlor and several bedrooms. The kitchen boasted a beautiful stone fireplace, which made it the warmest room during the long winters, and a natural gathering place for visitors. The property extended up to Wyril Point, and was large enough to include a small stable and its croft, not to mention a substantial garden, which Hobbs tended along with everything else.

Tern’s Rest cottage was her husband’s home. Joseph Marwick had been the only surviving child of parents now many years dead, and he had lived in the cottage all his life. Fiona was the daughter of the local rector; she and Joseph had been childhood sweethearts, and she’d never thought about marriage to anyone else.

“We’ll be together,” she remembered him telling her, when she was fifteen or sixteen years of age, “for as long as we live.”

The rector, albeit as poor as the church of a small village usually allowed, was one of the more educated members of the community, and Fiona’s family had occupied a respected place within it. The Marwick’s situation was a bit more complex. Joseph’s family had owned the land where the cottage stood for more generations than anyone could count, and although they were by no means gentry they had proved talented and frugal with limited resources. Savings had been set aside, and carefully protected over the years—and years.

Enough that the Marwick family was more comfortable than most in Barley Mow, and Fiona and her husband were given the status that a bit of money allowed. Joseph had been a mild, dreamy man with a genuine talent for painting, but who had difficulty in following through with plans, of which there had been many. Fiona didn’t mind. There were just enough funds to support a small family, and just enough was fine. She had no wish to spend her life worrying and complaining about money, like her own mother. And when the baby arrived, Mrs. Marwick had felt her life complete. She and Joseph adored their daughter, and for a few months after Madelaine’s birth all was well and right with the world.

Her husband had a lovely baritone voice, and at night sometimes Fiona woke up imagining that she heard him, singing lullabies again to Maddie.

Bye, baby Bunting,

Father's gone a-hunting,

Mother's gone a-milking—

But Joseph Marwick was dead, now, these past seven years. He’d died of the grippe—gentle and accepting to the last—the winter after Madelaine was born. The girl did not remember her father, of course; there were times when Fiona envied her that, and other times when she wondered if she remembered Joseph quite well enough herself.

  * * * *

“How’s Bunny?” said Fiona, entering the small stables. She tried to keep her voice light and unconcerned. The stallion looked at her with gentle, expectant eyes, and Fiona saw that Maddie was, in fact, feeding him carrots.

“I think I can ride him,” said Madelaine, as a carrot, top and all, disappeared in a soft crunch.

“Ride
Bunny
? Absolutely not.”

“I can!”

Outright prohibition was an unproductive strategy with her daughter. “He doesn’t belong to us,” said Fiona, casting around for a better approach.

Maddie was indignant. “I’m not going to
hurt
him.”

Logic, on the other hand, had been known to work wonders.

“How are you planning to saddle Bunny?” asked Mrs. Marwick.

The girl glanced up at the horse. His withers were well over her head.

“Hobbs can do it.”

“Ah, I see. Hobbs can do it. And do you think Hobbs will?”

Maddie looked thoughtful. “I don’t need a saddle,” she said finally.

Fiona was wondering how to counter this—she knew her daughter, and could almost see Madelaine astride the enormous stallion, her small legs splayed nearly straight out on either side—when she heard Dee calling. There was an urgent tone in his voice.

Oh, no.

She ran back to the house, to find the doctor on the kitchen doorstep. Fiona’s heart was pounding, but Dee wore a wide smile.

“The fever has broken,” he said.

Chapter 5 : Awake

The marquess was dreaming. In his dream he walked—and it was slow walking, because of some difficulty that he could not identify—along a beach which he did not recognize. Gulls flew in circles out to sea, cawing, and the cliffs to the opposite side were rocky and ominous. The waves made a constant background of noise, over which he could only just hear people talking.

Cut it off
, someone said, and the marquess tried to walk faster.

  * * * *

Sometime later, he dreamed again, as he thought. There was pain, but he could not be sure from where it came. A beautiful woman with green eyes came to his bedside and placed something cool on his forehead. He tried to thank her, and to ask a question, but no sound came. It was entirely frustrating. The woman left. He tried to call her back, but she did not hear.

  * * * *

And then the marquess awoke, suddenly, weak and aching but in his right mind. These things happen, the doctor would later say. A man you think nearly recovered will turn his face to the wall and die, when someone at death’s door survives.

’Twas broad daylight. A small face was bent over his, a face he recognized, although he was not sure why.

“He’s awake!” cried the child.

Colin winced at the high-pitched sound.

“Maddie, hush,” came another voice.

“No, he’s really awake!”

Another face appeared. It was the woman with the green eyes.

“Sir?” she said.

The marquess wondered if he could speak, and when he did, his voice seemed to come from very far away.

“Where am I?”

She explained, briefly, in a voice—low and soft—that he recognized from his dreams. And so the Marquess of Carinbrooke found himself at Tern’s Rest cottage in County Durham, the house of Mrs. Fiona Marwick and her daughter Madelaine, although he did not retain all these particulars until somewhat later. The woman sent the child immediately to fetch someone named ‘Dee’, then left him alone for a few minutes, only to return with a compress, which felt cool against his skin. Some part of his mind recognized that she smelled very good, a combination of roses and vanilla. He also realized that he was thirsty.

“Water?” he asked. He had any number of questions, but his throat felt too parched for anything more than a few croaked words.

“Of course,” said the woman—Fiona?—and she poured him a glass from a ewer on the nightstand.

“Don’t move your leg,” she added, and put an arm behind his shoulders, helping lift his head enough to swallow. At first he was conscious only of her proximity, a woman’s touch, tendrils of her hair brushing his cheek, but suddenly—

His leg?

Gods. Lord Ashdown couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed it before, because the leg was quite painful, extraordinarily so, and it felt like nothing he’d ever experienced before. What had happened to him?

“Your right leg is broken,” said the woman, as if he had asked the question aloud. “And there was an infection. You’ve had a bad fever.”

He stared at her, then drank a bit of water, and settled back down into the bed.

“It cannot be,” he said, finally.

She laughed. “And why not?”

“Well,” said the marquess. “For one thing, I’m still alive.”

  * * * *

The marquess never remembered the rest of that conversation. The scent of vanilla and roses faded, and he dozed more comfortably than before, without dreams. The next thing he heard was a booming, male voice.

“Ah, excellent! Madelaine says our patient is awake.”

 Colin’s head felt clearer than before. This must be a doctor, he supposed, a profession that he’d had little to do with since his childhood. The marquess shifted carefully in the bed, glancing toward the door.

“Good morning!” said the man, striding into the room. He was an imposing individual. Lord Ashdown himself was tall and well-built, but the doctor was a bear, with a barrel chest and the arms of a dock worker. He had a thick, well-trimmed beard—unusual in those days, when a clean-shaven face was the common style—and a wide smile.

Colin tried to sit up.

“Oh, no, my boy—not yet.”

A strong hand pushed him gently back to the bed. Lord Ashdown’s eyes narrowed. Weak and injured, he was still nobody’s boy, and for a moment the habits of a marquess—habits he generally forswore—returned. Doctors, in London, were considered gentlemen, and were acceptable society, but still— He expected to be introduced, and inquiries made as to how he was feeling, and certainly to be told what on earth he was doing lying on a too-short bed in what was evidently a rather modest
cottage
, although Lord Ashdown could see nothing, of course, other than the one room. The doctor was not cooperating. He advanced to the marquess’s bedside without hesitation, and threw back the sheet covering his right leg.

“Oh, I do say—”

Too late. The doctor was examining the leg closely—the marquess could see the evidence of a gash just beginning to heal, slightly redder than the surrounding flesh, but healthy enough, he thought. Then he realized who else was in the room.

His eyes flashed to the green-eyed woman’s face and she gave him a small smile and a tiny shrug. Was she the doctor’s assistant? She seemed entirely unaffected by the sight of a strange man’s leg, and Colin realized that she had probably seen the leg, and perhaps more, on several occasions while he was unconscious.

Gods.

He somehow felt that the woman should apologize to him. Or should he apologize to her? His head had begun to ache abominably, and the question was simply too difficult. Lord Ashdown closed his eyes, ready to sink back into sleep. But the doctor’s voice brought him around.

“A splitting headache, I’ll wager. Fiona, would you be so kind and make up another willow bark poultice?”

Fiona. Yes, he remembered now.

“Of course,” she said.

“Can I come in?” A child’s voice.

“
No
,” said the three adults, as one.

  * * * *

Dee examined his patient’s leg more thoroughly after Fiona had left, lightly pressing the skin around the gash, and probing even more gently around the break, watching the man’s expression for any evidence of sharp pain. He was pleased with the results; the break had been clean, as best he could tell, and the bone should knit back together without further complication.

The man was very weak, of course, and the doctor had no doubt the discomfort was still considerable.

“Hmm,” he said.

“Why do all doctors say that?”

Dee looked up at the stranger’s face. “It’s . . . our way of communicating, I suppose. You’ve been treated before?”

“Fell out of a tree when I was twelve. Lost consciousness, so I’ve been told. The doctors said ‘hmm’ for days before they’d let me up.”

“Ah.”

“Where am I? I think your assistant . . . Fiona? . . . said—”

“Mrs. Marwick. She’s not my assistant; you’re in her home. I’m Deandros Fischer.”

“I’m . . . Lord Colin Ashdown,” said the man.

“Someone will notify your family at once, Lord Ashdown, if you will give us the proper direction. But in the meantime—”

“There’s no need for that. I will be on my way by . . . by tomorrow.”

Dee said nothing for a moment. He’d met this type before, the ones who refused to sit down long enough to heal, and they were nearly as bad as the other, who took a mild cold and stayed in bed for months. Get on your horse, will you, your lordship? And be falling off it a half-mile later, and then we’ll have to do this all over again, mayhaps with two broken legs instead of one.

“At present, that is impossible,” the doctor answered, simply.

The man’s eyes flashed. Dee imagined that his lordship was not accustomed to being refused.

“Impossible! Why is that? Unless my stallion has also been hurt—”

“Your horse is absolutely fine, if appetite is any indication. But your injury has barely begun to heal, and without Mrs. Marwick’s efforts, and my own, you’d most likely be dead, minus your right leg, or both.”